


Hands Off

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Character Bleed, Conventions, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Quickies, Rough Sex, Supernatural Convention, Top Misha Collins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: Vicki calls it being “touched out”: The feeling of being overwhelmed and overstimulated after hours upon hours of being hugged, cuddled, poked, prodded, directed, posed… The feeling that one more touch of someone else’s skin on his is going to send him over the edge into utter madness from a lack of any sort of personal space bubble.  
And it’s bad in Chicago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is just a short little smutty piece to clear my head. I was lucky enough to be at ChiCon 2016, and while I knew Misha was late to his Castiel ops (because I had one), I didn't find out until later that both Jensen and Misha were MIA at the same time, and showed up to their respective places (Misha to his Cas ops, Jensen to autographs) at about the same time. 
> 
> Cue my tinhat, and my imagination running wild as to exactly what they might have been doing with that "missing in action" time. No beta, and barely edited, so mistakes are totally mine.
> 
> I have a couple of LONG fics in progress at the moment that I hope will be worth the wait, one of which is a new Destiel AU, and the other of which is a continuation of the Fire & the Flood 'Verse. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this little romp. :)

The truth is, they do have sex at cons. 

The truth is, they have  _ a lot _ of sex at cons. Usually on Saturday, after Misha’s off the clock. Again, later, if Jensen sings at SNS. And almost always on Sunday mornings - lazy morning sex to rouse Jensen for his morning panel.

But the truth also is, by Sunday night, Misha’s skin is on fire from the touch of a thousand strangers, and he just can’t bare for the contact of anyone.  _ Anyone _ . Even Jensen.

Vicki calls it being “touched out”: The feeling of being overwhelmed and overstimulated after hours upon hours of being hugged, cuddled, poked, prodded, directed, posed… The feeling that one more touch of someone else’s skin on his is going to send him over the edge into utter madness from a lack of any sort of personal space bubble.  

And it’s  _ bad  _ in Chicago.

It’s  _ so  _ bad that Misha’s fingers are scratching and scrambling, nails digging into his palms to keep him from bolting out of the room screaming by the time they finish the last set of group combo photo ops.

Those are with Jared. They go quickly, and they’re mostly tame. There are fewer than the ones he did with Jensen. He knows why. He knows about the divisiveness in the fandom. But now isn’t the time to think about that.

He’s not done, not by a long shot. He has hundreds of Castiel ops to go yet, and then it’s autographs, which is less about touch and more about facetime but honestly, right now, he’s not interested in that either. He needs something to calm his nerves, give him some control back, because he lost it hours ago. He has just enough composure to meet Jared’s eyes as they’re led in opposite directions by their respective handlers: Misha to change his wardrobe, Jared to go to autos. It’s not loud, but his eyes and his pronunciation are crystal clear. “Tell Jensen to meet me.”

“Now?” It’s mouthed back, but Misha catches it.

He gives a single, harsh nod. Jared offers one in return, and they part ways, probably for the rest of the evening.

That’s fine. Jared’s still fan-happy, kid-in-the-candy-store giddy, and Misha has reached the end of his rope. Separating them at this point is for the best.

He’s led to a private meeting room to change. It’s routine at this point: There are three identical sets of Castiel hung neatly on a rolling coatrack, with the shoes on the top rack. They always send the shoes, even though sometimes he doesn’t need them… because sometimes he  _ does  _ need them, because he accidentally only packs sandals or some shit. And Castiel  _ doesn’t  _ wear sandals.

The long meeting tables in the room are rearranged to give him a wide berth; three chairs are lined up facing the coatrack.

Misha sits on the middle chair.

He  _ always  _ sits on the middle chair.

Puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and draws a series of deep, calming breaths, and tries to let go. This part comes easily; it’s been part of his “creative process” for years.

At the bottom of his fifth exhale, there’s a knock at the door.

He stands and strides the few lengths it takes to reach it, barely pausing to verify the visitor before he throws the door open and lets his costar inside. “Took you long enough,” he growls in greeting, and that’s it. That’s all the time there is for words.

His lips crash into Jensen’s, pressing hard and biting as he forcefully guides Jensen backwards to press up against the nearest wall.

“Hello to you, too,” Jensen manages to breathe out, but Misha silences him with another long kiss as he grabs Jensen’s wrists in both hands and brings them up against the wall, above the taller man’s head. He catches both wrists in the strong fingers of his right hand and pins them to the wall. 

Only then does he pull his mouth from Jensen’s, yanking back and sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Your hands. Stay. Up here. Got it?”

Jensen knows better than to search for words. He simply nods in concession, eyes simmering just below full-blown lust.

Misha nods and kisses him one more time before dropping to his knees and opening Jensen’s fly.

There’s a flash of fire in Misha’s eyes as he glares up with a set jaw one last time, and that’s the only warning Jensen gets before he’s swallowed whole.

“Jesus-- Fuck-- Misha--”

Misha can hear his partner’s cries, but it’s secondary to the blood pounding in his own ears. He’s turned his brain off, even though he knows this is dangerous and maybe he should have at least asked permission first, but fuck it. Jensen’s curses and shouts of surprise quickly turn to moans and whines and whimpers that say he’s not complaining. And besides… it’s not like this is anything new.

“God-- fucking--- Misha, Jesus Christ, your mouth is--”

And Misha doesn’t hum, but positively, possessively  _ growls  _ around the organ in his throat and reaches up to grab and knead at Jensen’s ass. He doesn’t slow down and doesn’t back off - they don’t have a lot of time.

Jensen’s arms come down instinctively and Misha can hear his partner’s fingers scratching at the wall in the instant before he explodes, and Misha swallows because… there’s no sense chancing a mess that would draw more speculation than already exists. 

When he’s sure Jensen’s spent, he grabs the sagging right arm and spins his partner down to all fours. Yanks roughly at his jeans to lower them enough to expose Jensen’s ass to the cool air of the room. Scrambles a hand into his own pocket for supplies. And then, bracing his left hand over Jensen’s back and feeling the rise of his spine with hard, ragged breath, he finally does give pause.

“You good?” He asks, loving the sharp dig of the condom packet into the meat of his own palm.

“Was til you stopped,” comes the gruff reply with a cursory glance over a shoulder. “Fuckin’ do it already, Mish.”

Well, Hell. That’s what he gets for trying to be polite.

In response, he quickly lubes his right index finger and finds his target, sparing only enough mercy so as not to actually cause any damage. Other than that, the prep is quick and harsh and has Jensen hissing a stream of curses out between his teeth. 

Two fingers, and a couple of jabs with three, and then he’s rolling on the condom and lubing up his dick and pressing in, filling Jensen with one long, steady burn. 

He gives just a moment to allow his partner to settle in before gripping hard at his hips, pulling nearly all the way out, and slamming back in. Jensen keens and it eggs Misha on, encouraging him to go faster, harder. He’s anything but gentle, everywhere, about everything, and Jensen just takes it… because, Misha knows, he likes it too.

He doesn’t last as long as he’d like, and as he picks up his pace and tumbles headlong into a powerful orgasm, he knows in the back of his mind that he’s going to owe Jensen something incredibly slow and tender when they get back to Vancouver. But that’s later. That’s tomorrow or the next day, to relieve a different sort of stress; fewer fans, more time, more script revisions. 

This, right now, today, in Chicago, is about Misha taking back control of a situation that’s not ever really within his control at all.

He fills the condom and folds over Jensen’s back like a second skin, laying his head to the side to listen to his partner’s panting breaths and hammering heart.

...OK, so maybe he can squeeze in a little tenderness in this moment. They have time, at least, for a few kisses laid over a limber spine; for a gentle purr and nuzzle into fabric with his nose. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and pulls out.

Jensen waits for him to tie off the condom and lay it aside before sitting up and pulling Misha close. He lays a soft kiss on the collarbone and murmurs, “Nothin’ to be sorry for, Mish. I’m always here, you know that.” Another kiss, just as gentle as the first, this one to the bolt of his jaw. “This OK now?”

“Mmmhmmm.” Misha lets himself sag into Jensen as he captures the other man’s lips with his own.

“How many ops you got left?”

“They were still selling this morning, so I don’t know. Four hundred, maybe?”

The reply is a kiss to the crown of his head. “You got this.”

“I know.”

“You want my help getting dressed?”

Misha nuzzles his nose into Jensen’s neck just to feel the warmth radiating from the pulsepoint and murmurs, “You’re already late.”

“So are you. Hey, they don’t start the party without us, right?”

He doesn’t reply with words, just slowly gets to his feet and starts to undress. Jensen helps him shrug into the white dress shirt and button the buttons. He makes sure the collar’s straight and ties the tie. Misha handles his own pants, but Jensen does the belt. He sits and puts on his own shoes, and when he stands, Jensen’s ready with the suit jacket held out; he slides into it easily. 

The trench coat is last, of course. Once he puts it on, he’s full-on Castiel. The character consumes him. It’s always that way; it’s no different than Jensen sliding into Dean as he sits down behind Baby’s wheel, or Jared becoming Sam the minute the beanie comes off. They all have their character vices, and Misha’s is the trench. He sighs at it and gives Jensen a sad half-smile. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Darlin’.” Jensen holds the coat out, open between his hands so that Misha can just slide it on. “See you later?”

He steps forward and gives a soft peck to Jensen’s lips before turning around to slide his arms into the sleeves. A couple of shrugs, and he knows his body language is changing. That’s this life, though.

He stands in front of Jensen for approval, and his smile isn’t his anymore; it’s Castiel’s. There’s a nod, and he turns away, this time giving himself a once-over in the mirror. Without turning around, he says, “You better go before they come for me.”

Jensen just nods, all business, and crouches briefly to pick up and pocket the evidence of their act before striding out the back door without looking back.

Alone, Castiel smiles.

Misha tucks himself away.

Lucifer makes a play for attention, because he’s become comfortable in this skin, too. Maybe he’ll come out to play in this op session. He’d like that, he thinks.

There’s a knock at the door, and Lucifer’s smile gets bigger. “Showtime.”

Castiel shoves him to the back of the line, rolls his shoulders, and walks with measured steps to open the door.

“You ready, Cas?”

An awkward half-smile at the volunteer. “I’m ready.”


End file.
